Into Your Gravity
by Momo Cicerone
Summary: Gray Surge is nothing but a lunatic. -Chap 6: "Are you here to break me up again, or are you here to piece me back together?". [*Edo Gruvia*] [COMPLETE] Fluff overload. Not suitable for the faint of heart.
1. Into Your Gravity

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing but the plot.

**Summary: **Gray Surge is nothing but a lunatic.

**Lyrics: '**Gravity' song from Sara Bareilles.

**A/N: **I initially posted this with the purpose to get rid of some of my old drabbles, but the more I edited, the more it seemed to me that the drabbles fell into the same story line. So I decided to make this a multi-chap. Yes, it will have a start and an ending.

This one in particular I wrote back on June, right after I published Catch Me If You Can.

.

* * *

_—__Something always brings me back to you._

_It never takes too long__—_

* * *

**Into Your Gravity**

.

Juvia is confused.

She is extremely, utterly and most definitely confused.

She wishes she could put a name to this _—_if you _must_ call it that way_—_ _relationship_, or the absolute lack thereof.

Or maybe not.

Maybe what she wishes is that none of this nonsense had ever happened, and she didn't have to deal with _this_, whatever the hell _this_ meant and implied.

It's complicated, yet extremely easy. But she can't seem to be able to come to terms with herself either way.

This _feeling_ _—_this inexplicable _thing_ that messes up with her judgment and leaves her baffled at her own actions…it's complicated. Because she swears she does not want any kind of attachment, alliance or commitment to anybody, but at the same time it's _so_ easy, just way too easy to fall for him and indulge in that feeling.

She doesn't understand any of it, because it makes no sense _—_it makes absolutely _no sense_ whatsoever_—_

Why did she end up falling for the boy she's rejected innumerous times in the past? The one she swore off never to because he was just too clingy, too overdressed and just _—__just__—_too nice. Way too nice for her.

It's beyond her realm of understanding.

.

* * *

.

Their guildmates don't help the situation _at all_.

'_Where's your wife?_' They tease him, and he just laughs apologetically. She's already fuming inside, doing her best not to flip out and start throwing all the guild's furniture towards the clown who made that stupid joke. What the hell is with all that teasing? And why doesn't he say something, _anything_?

She's not his wife. She could not possibly, and will never be his wife.

He's just the guy she likes kissing. _Sometimes_.

You could say he's her friend too. A friend whom she won't share secrets with, or call when she's feeling down, or even watch a movie with. Because it'd be too weird, and she doesn't need other people to keep her company or cheer her up. She's fine the way she is. She's always been.

He's just a friend who she just happens to kiss now and then, because he's cute, and he's a good kisser, and that's it.

So when people ask _—_Nosy, annoying people, like Mirajane_—_ she tells them they're just friends.

Because, let's face it. That's the only thing they will ever become. You can bet money on that. Big money.

.

* * *

.

But when he kisses her _—__God_, when he does_—_ she can feel her resolution tumbling down like a house of cards.

He leans his face over, and she has a good guess of his intentions. She could push him away easily, _so easily_. Just like she's done so many time before. She could shove him to the ground or send him a flying kick and he'd be far away from her, and he'd never _dare_ touch her again.

But for some reason, she just can't. All she can do is watch helplessly as he pulls her closer in his arms.

"_Juvia-chan…_" He whispers faintly, and she quivers at the sound of her name on his lips, his husky tone making her knees go weak and cheeks flush _—_fucking _flush_, dammit. It makes no sense, the way she's reacting to him, the way she ignites at his mere touch.

Why does her pulse go racing every time he leans close to her? Why does she feel her insides stir with anticipation when he casually places his warm hands on her waist? Why does her stupid, treacherous heart start throbbing so madly when his lips cover hers?

Why does it have to feel _so_ good, kissing him?

And every time he does _—_every time he locks his lips with hers_—_ it's like fire, like melted lava running through her veins.

One hand caress down to her hip and trails up the arc of her back, while the other digs into her hair and strokes the back of her head… and they burn her so bad, she feels like his fingerprints are marked under her skin.

He should be _nothing_, he should mean _nothing_ to her.

He, _—_Gray Surge_—_ he's nothing but a lunatic.

But she can't help that he keeps drawing her into his gravity. She can't help that she keeps falling for him.

She hates herself because she's weak _—__he _makes her weak. And she can't fight it, she can't leave him and she isn't really sure that she wants to.

_God_, it's so_ complicated_, and she wants to end all that bullcrap.

.

But he kisses her again, and she's spirited away.

* * *

_—__You loved me 'cause I'm fragile._  
_When I thought that I was strong._  
_But you touch me for a little while_  
_and all my fragile strength is gone__—_

* * *

**A/N:** I'm honestly lacking motivation to edit and write my other WIPs and update my multichap so reviews will be extremely appreciated.


	2. Burning Fire

**Disclaimer**: I own nothing but the plot.

**Summary: **Sometimes, she feels tempted _—__oh, so tempted_

**Lyrics: **_Big Bad Wolf_ from Lana Del Rey.

**A/N: ***Rips chest open* Here's a piece of my heart. Please handle with care.

* * *

_—__I'll take the wrong path,_  
_I think I'll go a little off track__—_

* * *

**Burning Fire**

.

He's not soft and gentle as she expects, and that surprises her.

His kisses are hungry, deep and rough against her lips, a most interesting mix between demanding and desperate that makes her heart flutter with coiling warmth in her chest.

She has to admit that she kinda likes that hint of desperation in his kisses, how he drinks from her skin with the thirst of a man who just crossed a dessert, and the dazzling way he ignites at her touch as if she were the very fuel that feeds his fire.

She's slowly becoming addicted to that foreign sense of longing and _belonging_ she's never felt before, because all the men in her past burned her like cigarettes and vanished like thin smoke _—_they were nothing but a temporary shelter during stormy skies and rainy days. But _this_ man, this very man, he feels like something more than safe haven:_ he feels like home_. He makes her feel like burning coal and melting lava; his fire tricks her into thinking she can burn forever, but she's certain that once he leaves her heart will either turn to ashes or solid stone _—_it will either be broken beyond repair, or drain out of any emotion.

She knows he loves her _—_or he thinks he does, whatever the hell _love_ means_—_ and she probably shouldn't encourage him any further into this impossible romantic dream of his, because she's sure she can't love him back_—_at least not the same way he does, with that blind, stubborn determination that she finds utterly incomprehensible_—_ but there is no shame or guilt when her hands roam over the bare skin of his chest, tracing the outline of his abs and muscles as he quivers and huffs softly under her fingers. She pauses to dip her thumbs in the hollow of his collarbone, grabbing the back of his shoulder and squeezing gently when he slants his mouth over and claims her lips with a kiss.

No, she doesn't love him. There's no hint of love when she locks her lips with his; no romantic promise when her tongue slips inside his mouth and strokes fiercely against his; there's only lust in her kisses, wanton in her touch, and she fools herself into believing that _he knows_ that, and that that's enough for him.

Although knowing him, even if she were to do this out of pity, he would probably be okay with it.

_—_Because he's just that desperate for her, isn't he? And as bad as it sounds, she can't deny that her heart swells a little when that thought crosses her mind_—_

_But oh_, there's _nothing_, not a single little thing to pity about him. He's _hot_ _—_ironically hot for someone who likes to hide a God-like body under ridiculous amount of clothing_—_ all fair skin and muscles, enough to make her heart skip a beat or two when the extra layers are gone and he stands before her bare-chested _—_as we speak now.

He hovers over and breathes three words in her ear, his voice shaky and broken by something far stronger than the cold wrecking his body. Her name follows in a whisper, a hunting sound that lingers in her skin and she can almost taste in her lips as if words turned into ghostly kisses that fluttered all over her. He overflows sweetness, and she can't help but melt a little inside at the longing in his tone.

She hums softly in acknowledgment, grateful that he doesn't push her further for an answer she doesn't have, one she's not sure she can lie out.

Because he deserves better, right?

He's sweet and honest and all the things she knows guys will fake to be until they get what they want and ditch you for someone new.

But he… he's not like the occasional crushes he's had before: he's different, and that terrifies her.

He's nothing like the men she's fucked for fun and ended up fucking her up. She learned the hard way that love is not a game she's very good at, and she ran out of chips to gamble way too early in the bet.

She likes bad boys because they are predictable _—_they all want the same and they don't stick around long enough to make you miss them. But good boys _—_good boys like_ him—_ they are the worst.

They ignite feelings you've long forgotten, they delude you into believing that they'll be there for you forever and when you least expect it, they rip your heart out of your chest and step on it.

Good boys always find a way to crawl under your skin and take over your heart. They fly you to the moon and drop you down to earth after ripping your wings off your back and telling you they are sorry.

She's reluctant to take the fall again. Besides, she's not sure she has any romantic feelings left to spare to another human being.

She's a ragged doll, stuffed with broken dreams and patched with cynicism.

But he pets and pampers her as if she were made of the finest porcelain, and that touches and scares her at the same time (because she's uncertain if he's truly aware she's not that image of perfection he's fooled himself into believing she is).

She's far from flawless. If anything, she's all kinds of messed up and ten tones of terrible _—_but he doesn't seem to see it, or he doesn't seem to care.

And she thinks that he could do so much better with someone else _—_someone whole and caring who would actually whisper those words back at him and _mean it_, really mean it.

Even so, that doesn't stop her from dragging him down that path of inevitable heartbreak. Because _this_ can't end up well, prince charming is not meant to fall in love with the wicked witch and she's not supposed to love him back. She's no princess to this absurd fairy tale of his, no matter how badly he wants to be her knight in shiny armor.

He pulls away from her lips and says the words again, drunken eyes clouded by affection locking into hers, and she can do nothing but bite her lip and hold his gaze.

Sometimes, she feels tempted _—__oh, so tempted__—_ to say something stupid and reckless like _me too_.

.

And soon she finds herself running out of reasons not to.

* * *

_—__But I heart you and I wanna be your girl_  
_I heart you and I know you'll rock my world__—_

* * *

**.**

**A/N:** I have to say something: I'm a total SUCKER for the Juvia x Bora relationship and my Edolas take on that, is that Bora was actually Mr. Nice. Yes, he was such a good boy haha. And Juvia's relationship with him totally fucked her up because he totally SMASHED her heart, ripped it into shreds and flushed it down the toilet. _There._ I'm evil.

By the way, this piece I wrote right after I finished **Sober**. It was supposed to be sort of a sequel.

-Huh- another thing… some people mentioned that she's more into him that he is into her? Reaaaally? You think that!? –laughs- I don't think that's even _possible_, or maybe I'm deluding myself… and maybe I should write Gray's POV next -Hehe-

Thanks to the people who reviewed, **YOU'RE AWESOME**. (Please do it again, no, seriously do it.)


	3. Choking Air

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing but the plot.

**Summary: **He thinks she's made of air.

**Lyrics: **_Lego House_ by Ed Sheeran

**A/N: **Chapter 2 was a piece of my heart. Here I present you with a scrap of my soul. And may you please be careful with it.

There's hidden meanings all over this fic; you are welcome to read between the lines, because you might be deceived by the self-denial and self-delusion from both parties. Love is strange thing, sometimes it's there and sometimes it's not. Sometimes you love effortlessly, sometimes you find yourself choking to breathe.

Because we've all been broken at some point, and regardless if you have to pick yourself together or have someone else pick up the shreds, be certain that somebody _will _be there to find the missing pieces.

I apologize for the terrible, horrible lack of creativity in the sentence format of this chapter in particular, but in my defense it's kinda intentional and kinda not.

* * *

_—__I'm gonna pick up the pieces, and build a lego house_

_when things go wrong we can knock it down__—_

* * *

**Choking Air**

.

_He thinks she's made of air._

She came into his life like a swirling tornado: lifting him off the ground, ripping trees from their roots and tearing up ceilings from the well-structured buildings in his world. Beautiful and chaotic, she left a path of destruction as she made her way and walked past him without a second glance.

He's left alone in the dark, carried away by the wrath of her wreckage; scared, dazzled and mesmerized by this natural disaster.

As the world he came to know is diminished to debris, he stands in the middle of those ruins with the conviction that he will never be the same after she rampage over his life _—_She brought in lightning and heavy rain, dark clouds and raging wind into his once peaceful climate, and he's certain that the sun will never _ever_ shine again if she's not there to help him chase the storm away.

Stumbling back on his feet, he tries to reconstruct something from the shattered remains of his life, but every brick he puts together, every piece of land he seeds has her name carved on it _—_it irrevocably belongs to her. As subtle as a hurricane, she rocked and took over his world, spiraled him off track and doomed him to restless mornings and sleepless nights of endless longing.

_Oh, how she ruined him. _

He finds himself cutting his own chest open and ripping his heart out as a peace offering, a desperate attempt to mild the throbbing pain that threatens to swallow him whole. But despite him wearing his beating heart on his sleeve, she remains unfazed by his devotion.

It really isn't fair.

It's not fair at all, how he just never stood a chance against this weather _—_the way he has no control or choice over his emotions.

He follows her recklessly like the rain follows the wind _—_she's just as evasive and hard to grasp_—_ and no matter how hard he tries to hold on to her, she always finds a way to slip through his fingers.

He's a storm chaser, caught in the eye of the storm.

But how to tame a hurricane?

She's the oxygen he's struggling to breathe, and every time she turns away from him, he's left breathless and gasping _—choking—_ his lungs burning for air.

He's long past being angry and frustrated and trying to get over her _—_if there ever was anything more than a laughable attempt to do so_—_ he's learned not to fight the impossible because there's no way you can result victorious on a battle against yourself.

And even if he did so, even if he stabbed his own heart until it bled out of any emotion, what would be left of him?

She's the air that lights his fire, and without her, he's reduced to nothingness _—_a kind of hollow that cannot be measured in size or depth, a numbness that sticks to every pore on his skin and refuses to fade away.

He swears that she glows in the dark _—_incandescent as the sun itself_—_ and just like the dumbest moth of the pack, he's drawn to follow her light and set himself on fire.

_—_He just wishes that was enough to keep her warm_—_

.

* * *

.

_But God_, he loves every single little thing about her.

He loves that her eyes resemble the azure of a cloudless summer day when she laughs, but turn into midnight blue when anger frames her features. He loves the way her ridiculously thick eyelashes flutter when she rolls her eyes at him with exasperation, the little crease that forms between her brows when a scowl twists her look, and the condescending tone of her voice _—_the witty and sassy (and sometimes hurtful) remarks she makes about him.

He loves when she wrinkles her nose disapprovingly and when her brows arch up in a skeptical, sarcastic manner. He loves that she likes to chew her lower lip raw when she's nervous, that she only curls one corner of her lips when she smirks and that her laugh is more of a snort turned into a giggle _—_he loves how that sound sends is heart bursting in a bubble of joy, and he doesn't mind being goofy or straightforwardly ridiculous to coax that sweet sound out of her.

He loves that she says she doesn't like to share her things, but has no problem stuffing his mouth with her food to shut him up when he's being overly talkative.

He loves that she pets a gold fish for the sake of being emotionally detached, but will call every day to check if it has been properly fed when she's out on her missions.

He loves her silhouette when she stands barefooted by the window, the strands of blue she leaves on the bathtub after she washes her hair, the mess of her clothes scattered on his bedroom floor and the scent that lingers between his bed sheets when she's gone.

He loves that she makes him a terrible person and a better man at the same time _—_she makes him greedy, selfish and jealous, and she makes him caring, patient and generous.

And he finds it amusing that she contradicts herself in every way possible _—_she tries to be tough when she's so vulnerable and she pretends to be ruthless and cold when he knows her to be kind and sweet_—_ she has mastered the art of lying to herself so well that he's _almost _convinced when she says she doesn't know how to love.

Because she does, doesn't she? Ain't it love what makes her pupils darken when their eyes meet? Isn't it the reason why her breath hitches in her throat when his lips touch her skin? Doesn't it show in the way she kisses him, the way she gives herself to him?

He can tell, right? He can't really be that oblivious to the difference between love and lust (or so he thinks).

.

* * *

.

Her laugh is dry and humorless when she tells him she's broken beyond repair, and no amount of cotton candy he tries to smear over her would ever fix that. She thinks he's sugar coating her, seeing her for someone she's not.

Little does she know that he's chipping chunks of his own heart to fill the missing pieces in hers.

And maybe that's a stupid, crazy thing to do. Maybe he's sailing on a sinking ship and he's gone way too far in his attempt to mend the holes on it.

.

Natsu says this _thing_ he has for her is an unhealthy obsession he should get rid of ASAP.

Lucy says his desperation is becoming borderline creepy.

_She_ says she's honestly seen more spine in jellyfish.

Maybe it's true. Maybe he's all that _—_an obsessive, creepy, spineless lunatic whose world revolves around her.

Or maybe he's just helplessly, crazy in love.

* * *

_—__and if you're broken I'll mend ya_

_and keep you sheltered from the storm that's raging on__—_

* * *

**A/N: **Okay I am SO SORRY that this chapter is so ridiculously cheesy, sappy and over the top *squirms uncomfortably* it's just how I feel okay?

If you missed my Author's Note update for last chapter, may I remind you that this is no longer a dumpster for my WIPs –this is a multi-chap, yay! So this is going to be potentially 5 chapters long.

**Thanks a bunch **to the people who reviewed, OMG I'm so grateful for you guys, you motivate me to keep writing because it's no secret that this pairing is next to nonexistent in the fandom :(

So there, down here is a **review **box and if you happen to submit one you will have my eternal gratitude! ^^


	4. Troubled Water

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing but the plot

**Summary: **Fairy tales don't always have a happy ending, do they?

**Lyrics: **_Big girls don't cry _by Fergie

**A/N:** I apologize in advance for the potential heartbreak. Not a happy chapter. Take a hint from the song choice.

My heart ached the hole time I was writing this. I shit you not.

.

'_The term "a perfect storm" is used to describe a serendipitous confluence of events which results in something astounding and often catastrophic. Considered on their own, each of the events is not terribly remarkable, but when the events are combined, the results can be formidable. The term is used both literally, to refer to ongoing events, and hypothetically, to talk about potential disaster scenarios.'_

_._

* * *

—_I need some shelter of my own protection baby_

_To be with myself in center clarity__—_

* * *

.

**Troubled Water**

.

She knows it's a terrible, _terrible_ mistake, this thing they've gotten themselves into.

It was fun to start with, but lately, it's getting out of hand.

It's not that she's gotten tired of it, if anything, she's got a little too used to it, and that just can't be good.

No, it _can't _be good.

She's got accustomed to falling asleep with his warm chest pressed against the arch of her back, to waking up at the husky sound of his good mornings, to the tingling kisses he places on her neck while she brushes her teeth and the ever-present grip of his arms around her waist, a spot they have made a home of.

There's something off with the world when he's not there _—gravity switches, time slows down_. She finds it hard to sleep without his rhythmic breathing dusting her hair, meals are awfully silent without his constant chattering and her chest feels heavy as the air in her lungs thickens for no apparent reason.

The days he's gone on missions, she wanders on his apartment because she feels that there's not enough of his presence left on hers, and that unsettles her (something she is directly responsible of, for she has made it a point not to invite guys over to prevent them from leaving unwanted traces of memories in her personal space). She wears his old shirt and curls on his sofa, picks up a book she's hardly interested in and skims over the pages while trying to deceive time into flowing a little bit faster. But his absence is a ghostly veil that wraps around her with the subtlety of a tsunami, and she's drowning at the realization of just how lonely she feels when deprived of his company.

Confusion takes over as to when did it happen _—_when did she start developing this _thing_ for him that clouded her common sense into blurred clarity?

Trapped in a sea of troubled water, she finds herself sinking deeper into the unknown as her emotional attachment to him grows by the day. And like a perfect storm, the magnitude in which she's become so emotionally invested in him takes her completely by surprise _—_it's certainly not something she thought herself capable of.

She's losing herself, and the deeper she dives in, the scarier it gets_._

_Oh, God. What is this even?_

If this is what they call _love_, she really doesn't want it.

(She doesn't recall it hurt half as bad.)

And she _wants_ out.

—_Desperately._

.

* * *

.

She likes her breakups short and drama-free, half-hearted excuses that don't have to make sense because neither of them care enough to delve too much on the matter. She's used to brief morning-after goodbyes and _thanks for the memories_, quick farewells detached from promises like _I'll call you later _or_ we can still be friends_.

She'd rather not, really.

Relationships are not something she would willingly sign herself for (long-time relationships be completely out of the question); there's no red string of fate tied around her finger, and if any, she will make sure to cut it off _—_she's a shameless flight risk, ready to take off and leave at the slightest sign of commitment.

But this _thing_ she has with him, this unspoken bond she didn't bargain for, it's making her resolve all that much difficult.

_Oh, if only._

If walking away were as simple as it should be…

(_She'd been long since gone._)

.

* * *

.

She takes small steps away from him, silent meals with averting gazes and absent-minded replies to his anxious questions. Long missions help to stretch some distance between them, and she makes of insomnia a close friend by lying awake at night in her lonely bed. He panics at her growing distance, feeling the emotional gap expand between them like a menacing abyss opening wide at their feet _—_he can feel the brittle edges cracking underneath, and the urge to jump over is suppressed by the uncertainty of whether she would catch his fall.

He's perplexed by her sudden coldness, baffled by her attitude. She disconnects from him with the flippancy of an autumn leaf on the wind, brushing him off like winter dust that falls on her shoulders _—_and it _hurts_.

Oh, it hurts _so badly_.

Monosyllabic words meet his demand for answers, and frustration gets the best of him as he asks _what the hell is wrong with her_ when she yanks her arm away from his grasp.

She looks him dead in the eye and states that _she's always been like this_, and _what the hell is wrong with **him**_.

The look of utter hurt in his eyes is a spear that pierces throughout her ribcage, and she has to look away before she does something crazy like throw herself at his arms and beg for his forgiveness.

.

* * *

.

It's over, and she doesn't know what to think of it.

.

.

Normal life resumes, except it's not the same.

It's not the same because he's not there anymore. He's not there to smother her with his overwhelming attention until she's fed up with his presence. Mornings get dimmer without his beaming smile brightening up her day, afternoons are dull and empty as a horrible silence fills her nights.

He signs off from the waiting game, and she knows that this time, a line has been crossed.

.

They become parallel worlds that don't intertwine anymore.

.

_Damn,_ but she misses him, she misses home.

She misses all the good and the bad, the icy-cold touch of his hands and the suffocating heat of his layers. She longs to hear the lullaby of his heartbeat drumming against her ear and her lips ache for kisses the same way a compulsive smoker's crave for cigarettes; there's a permanent itch in her skin calling to feel his soothing fingerprints, an empty space between her fingers where his used to rest _—_there's a hole in her chest, a blank space in her mind, a part of herself that's missing.

She feels impaired _—_handicapped, incomplete. There's a bigger missing piece of hers she left somewhere, a phantom limb she keeps reaching out for because neither her mind nor her body will accept that it's gone.

The problem is, she knows exactly where to find it.

.

—But she doesn't think herself brave enough to take that step.

.

* * *

—_Fairy tales don't always have a happy ending, do they?_

_And I foresee the dark ahead if I stay__—_

* * *

.

**A/N: **If you have never heard of the red string of fate, you might want to look it up. You know, for extra cheesy effect. Just saying.

**Ahem. **Some clarifications. I'm not trying to portray the perfect boyfriend or the ideal relationship. As I said, this thing is semi-autobiographic, and if anything, I'm trying to portray the most unbalanced relationship there could be. Love is not fair, it is not at all. Sometimes, you will find yourself pouring your soul out to someone who isn't willing to give you the same level of commitment; or on the other hand, you will find someone who overwhelms you with so much love you don't feel yourself worthy of them. Either way, it takes a lot of courage to love the wrong person until you can decide if they are right for you.

And last but not least, **reviews** are extremely appreciated :)


	5. Crumbling Earth

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing but the plot

**Summary: **But only fools try to fight quicksand.

**Lyrics: **_All Too Well _by Taylor Swift

**A/N:** If you see some weird transitions is because I was trying a little too hard on the poetry and ended up scratching entire paragraphs of it. So I just salvaged what I could and stuck it anywhere. _Apologies_.

.

* * *

—_Well, maybe we got lost in translation_

_Maybe I asked for too much_

_But maybe this thing was a masterpiece_

'_Till you tore ill all up_—

* * *

.

**Crumbling Earth**

.

When she leaves, she doesn't bother cleaning up the traces she left behind, and it's driving him _insane._

He's going crazy.

He sees her shadow in every corner of his house. There's an invisible stain on the window frame where her elbows used to rest, a blurred shade that tricks him into believing she's still standing there watching every sunset. Her laugh is a constant echo that resonates at the back of his head, and he swears that the faint whistling of his bed sheets carry on the sound of her voice calling his name. He keeps finding scattered strands of blue all over the place: on the bed, on the bathroom, on the kitchen counter where lonely breakfast takes place and the long-vacant spot on his two-seat sofa.

He's at the point of breakdown, a step away from losing his mind.

—This isn't healthy.

Whatever_ this _is, it isn't healthy at all, and he really needs to get away from it.

He needs to peel what still lingers of her touch from his skin and wash her scent off his pillows. He needs the air to stop burning his lungs and his heart to stop bleeding at her memory.

—_Please stop bleeding_—

He needs his life back, to find whatever is left of himself and piece it back together, to remember how to function without her and try to be the person he was before she came along.

It somehow proves to be inconceivable to imagine, impossible to achieve, inevitable to fail.

She brought him down like landslide and turned the firm foundation of his world into crumbling soil.

He's sinking, way too deep.

.

_But only fools try to fight quicksand._

.

Somewhere along the way, they lost all sense of direction —He's a broken compass pointing south, and she's the North Star he's bound to follow.

But wishes upon a star don't always come true, fairy tales don't always have a happy ending and love don't always conquers everything.

At least for him, they don't.

.

* * *

.

She's coping, if anything.

She adjusts to her new routine with the grace of a toddler wearing wrong-feet shoes: dark bitter coffee kissing her lips on mornings instead of his sweet gentle lips and the cold embrace of a thick winter coat in absence of the arms that used to keep her warm. Days come and go in a haze in which she pretends to still find the little things in life interesting; the exchange of seasons, the unpredictable weather, the birds that sing an obnoxious three-tuned song outside her window and the always busy guild life that he's no longer a part of. She develops a sudden workaholic tendency, good excuse to blame for the dark bags under her eyes and the clothes that hang loose on her body, as if nights weren't restless and food didn't all taste like cardboard in her mouth. Nocturne walks on sleepless night help her clear her mind, but she always finds herself taking a familiar path that leads to his apartment's window; the lights are always on, and sometimes she wonders if he's got company, awake so late at night. But that's an answer she doesn't want to find out, and soon he becomes a blur memory always present in her mind and the dim lighting on a window frame at long past midnight.

.

Weeks turn into months, slow as they can be, but the wound doesn't quite heal.

Maybe some scars aren't meant to heal with time.

.

* * *

.

One day, she comes across him.

He's holding a take away cup of coffee in his gloved hand, the chilly spring breeze making a mess of his onyx hair as the ends of his checkered scarf flutter carelessly in the wind. He sips on his beverage, firm lips pressing against the paper cup and cheeks red from the cold, a distracted gaze in his dark brown eyes that gives her the chance to flee and hide away.

She doesn't need this. _Damn_, she doesn't need this right now.

She doesn't need to be reminded of how nice it feels to run her fingers through his hair and the charming way he would flush pink at her boldness. She can do without reminiscing the drunken feeling of his soft lips tracing every inch of her skin, the warm touch of his hands, the way his eyes would glimmer with unspoken affection when they locked into hers —she doesn't need to be reminded of _him_, really.

She takes the opposite way —because running away is the only way she knows, because she worked too hard in building up her sand castle to watch it crumble under the dazzling sun and because if he took the trouble to rearrange his whole life for the express purpose of avoid ever meeting her again, she isn't gonna impose her presence on him.

She will go back to pretending he never existed.

_._

* * *

_._

_She can't._

She tried —she _really t_ried— but it's not working at all, and she wonders if this is how she'll have to spend the rest of her days

—_hurting._

She can't do this any longer.

A light rain starts to fall as she walks the empty streets in another sleepless night, puddles of water forming on the pavement and a familiar road illuminated by odd streetlamps. She's being hunted by his memory and the air is gradually becoming harder to breathe, barely passing through her lungs and almost refusing to come out. There's a monster stuck in her chest that's ripping her guts apart with pointed claws and sharp teeth, and she doesn't think herself strong enough to keep fighting it —she's exhausted, at the very verge of insanity and dancing by the thin edges of despair.

_She needs to know._

.

And maybe she should have left her pride at the door a long while ago. Maybe it doesn't make any sense to bang at his door past 2 am on a rainy night after not talking to each other for months and pretending that nothing ever happened between them. Maybe he doesn't want her anymore and she's just setting herself up for failure and self-embarrassment.

Or maybe she's got nothing else to lose after she lost him and what's left of her meager ego is really worth the gamble.

She doesn't know how she managed to gather the courage, but maybe she just —_desperately, so desperately_—needs to know if he still loves her.

He opens the door, tousled hair and a puzzled expression she can't quite decipher. He's saying something. He's talking as he pulls her in and closes the door behind her. She doesn't answer his questions when he sits her in the sofa a throws a warm towel over her damp hair —she's too busy getting lost on his stare and watching him frown with preoccupation, too engrossed in the feeling of his hands spreading her warmth as he gently rubs the towel against her skin.

He doesn't push for an answer. He never does.

.

She's lying on his bed, wearing his old shirt and the covers pulled up to her chin, eyes wide awake. _He_… he's sleeping on the couch, and she doesn't really know what to think about that.

_Is he being a gentleman? Is that his way to say _I don't want you anymore_? Did he just take her in out of pity? Is he just sticking to common courtesy because they are little more than acquaintances? _

She doesn't dare to ask, and the monster in her chest bawls and tears another piece of her heart off.

.

Before night turns into morning, she walks out of the room and takes him by surprise, slipping under the nest of blankets he made on the couch to lay beside him. He moves over to make room for her and wraps his arms around her to bring her close, nuzzling against the top of her head as she buries her face on his chest and clings to his shirt.

It feels right. _Finally,_ it feels so right.

—_Please don't let go_—

"_I'm sorry…_" She breathes against his skin, and he doesn't know if it's just that overly wishful, self-deluding side of himself imagining the crack in her voice, but the words just drill into his ribcage and breaks him into a million tiny pieces before he can figure it out, "_I'm so sorry… sorry…_" She keeps repeating, and tough there's so much more she wants to say to him, the words just won't come out of her lips.

"_Don't,_" He mutters, an unfinished sentence that he's not sure himself how to end. He wishes he could say something between the lines of '_It's okay'_, but he really doesn't know what he's reassuring her for.

Truth be told, he doesn't think that anything else matters anymore.

As the walls they built around themselves start to collapse one by one, she burst into tears —an emotional breakdown he's never witness in her before, and his heart shatters with the urge to set things right, to stop the both of them for aching.

He curls his finger under her chin, thumb pressing lightly against her lower lip as he pulls her face over and seals her sobbing lips with his in a tender kiss.

When she kisses him back, the whole world burns to ashes.

The sand castle crumbles.

.

* * *

—'_Cause there we are again_

_When I loved you so_

_Back before you lost_

_The one real thing you've ever known_—

* * *

.

**A/N: **Do I get lynched if I say this is the last chapter? Alright, I have a short epilogue but I'm greedy and I want your reviews. _**Persuade me**_.


	6. A Perfect Storm

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing but the plot.

**Summary: **"Are you here to break me up again, or are you here to piece me back together?"

**Lyrics: **_Video Games_ by Lana Del Rey

**A/N: ***Appears holding a bunch of candy, lollipops, marshmallows and shit* Look, sorry I made some of you sad throughout this fic, in my defense, I never planned on writing semi-angst in the first place. I wanted to do a deeper insight on their potential relationship and it just happened to be a ball of depressive crap. So here, accept this as a peace offering *hands candy*

'_I've got a short epilogue_' I said. Holy jeez I swear what I had was short and sweet but then some people asked me for the morning after scene and some heart-wrenching crap came out. I'M SORRY THIS IS SUPER LATE TOO.

_._

* * *

—_Heaven is a place on earth with you_

_Tell me all the things you wanna do_

_I heard that you like the bad girls_

_Honey, is that true?_

_It's better than I ever even knew—_

* * *

.

**A Perfect Storm**

.

When she wakes up next morning, he's not there beside her, and she panics.

_Was it just a dream, an illusion due to emotional exhaustion?_

Before she lets her mind wander deeper down that road, a sense of calm takes over.

This place is familiar.

But it's not the same dull white of her bedroom's walls. It's a mix of maroon with brown accents and wooden shelves that she knows so well. It's a bed loaded with warm blankets, a familiar scent all over her skin, and that long lost sense of belonging that comes attached to _him_.

_She's home._

.

They sit in awkward silence, furtive looks thrown across the kitchen counter where breakfast is set for two.

It's unsettling —eerie in some sort of way— and she feels as if the small distance that separates them might as well be galaxies apart.

(Time and space, they don't appear to be working properly in this room)

There's a subtle clunking sound of the spoon hitting against his cereal bowl as he puts it down and breaks the silence, "What are we, Juvia-chan?"

Her gaze is fixed upon the metal fork grasped between her fingers, a small frown creasing her brows. He asked a very specific question, one that should be quite easy to answer.

_What are they?_ She repeats the question to herself. But she knows it goes way beyond acquaintances, comrades, friends or lovers—  
He's a lighthouse keeper guiding her through dark tides, and she's the captain of a lone lost boat trapped in the midst of a sea storm.

They are an unbalanced team, an unfair trade she's not sure he will be willing to take again.

_How do you even attempt to put that into words?_

"_Please don't say— _don't say something like '_we're just humans_'. That's not what I'm asking you. I know the implications of being human includes the fact that we're bound to make the same mistakes over and over until we learn not to fall into the same hole again. The problem with me is, I keep crawling back to it… _I keep crawling back to you_. I'm not gonna lie and tell you that I'm big enough to love you for your flaws_— _That'd be blatant lying. I honestly hate you half of the time, I hate you and your indecision and your lying to yourself and dragging my heart on the floor in the process. But I love you twice the same, and that's something I tried very hard not to.

You don't _understand_… or at least you don't care that you're stepping on me, and it _hurts._ To be completely honest with you, I don't know if I can go through this all over again.

Life without you, it's not impossible. It may be a colorblind and a single-flavored monotony, but it's manageable. And I think it's because I spent so much time building my life around you that I lost my center once you walked away. But that doesn't mean I cannot function: all I have to do is find a new purpose and redirect myself to it. I have yet to find one, true; but eventually, I know I will. The thing is, I can live without you. I didn't die as I thought I would, and I didn't fall apart because honestly, you were never the one who held me in one piece. You broke me bad, Juvia-chan, but I managed to pick up the shreds on my own.

The question now is, are you here to break me up again, or are you here to piece me back together?"

"_I didn't—_" She paused. But _damn_, how could she possibly respond to _that_? What is one supposed to say to a hate confession? No matter what came out of her lips, it'd end up being a lame excuse like, "I didn't mean to hurt you."

"That doesn't change the fact that you did, and I'm tired of you thinking that my pain doesn't matter because you can't feel it."

The half-smile on his lips is bitter, and that rubs her the wrong way. If this is a competition of who had it worst, two can play that game.

"It wasn't a walk on a park for me either, just so you know." She snaps, smashing her fork against her scrambled eggs with unnecessary force.

"How was it, then?" He asks calmly, curious stare fixed on her as if they were discussing the morning weather and not six months of living hell.

She's not good with words_—_ she's terrible at_ I love you's _and _I missed you so's _or overall sentimental demonstrations, but he's asking all the right questions that she's bound to respond wrong, and not because she doesn't feel that way, but because she's terrified of her own answer.

"I missed you. _Us_. This thing that we had." She adds pressure to her fork and it's quite a miracle that the porcelain plate underneath it is not cracking open, because she's channeling all her fears and mortification towards it. "I know I fucked up, and that's probably because I _am_ fucked up myself. I'm broken and I _told you_ that. But you said you'd pick me up… and now your hands are bleeding.

—_I'm so sorry that you're bleeding too—_

I'm sorry that I hurt you, I'm sorry that I don't have an answer for your question because I don't know how to fix myself, or fix you, or whatever we are supposed to be.

_You…_ You are so confusing, did you know that? Sometimes I wonder why do you even like me anyway? And I wonder when I'm going to cease being an adventure and become a burden to you.

Are you ever going to see that, if you don't already know?

You say you hate me, yet you stay. I guess it's the same for me in a weird kinda way. I hate you because you stand for everything that I don't want yet you make me _want you._ Like, _the fucking irony of that._ I didn't ask for this _—_I didn't ask for you to come over and shit all over my common sense_—_

You make me stupid. You make me _so _weak and dependent of you it's pathetic, and I _hate it_.

_You really make a mess of me. You make me a fucking coward_.

_This— You, us— it makes no sense, and it terrifies me._

I don't recognize the person I become when I'm with you, but I don't' want to be the person I am when I'm without you.

I'm not as… _eloquent_ as you are. I suck at pretty words and you know that, but_ I heart you_. And I'm sorry if that's not enough. I'm sorry if it's too late and this doesn't even answer your q_—_"

The pad of his finger is pressing lightly over her lips and the words die before they have a chance to be spoken.

"_Shh..._" He hushes her, making her blink in surprise. "You talk too much, Juvia-chan."

.

They burn into oblivion as their lips connect, cold breakfast lying forgotten on the table.

.

* * *

.

They find a way back to each other with the easiness of imprinted memory, a feeling as familiar as repeating the steps of an old dance or singing along a childhood lullaby _—_it really comes as second nature, like finding the balance on a riding bike or keeping your head over water,

—_Once you learn, you never truly forget._

.

They're a tangle of intertwined hands and roaming fingers, a mix of marked fingerprints, faint bruises and light scratches lingering on pale skin. They're choked laughter, soft moans and whispered words in between breaths.

She's picture perfect: messy blue curls sprawled on his pillow and porcelain skin glistering with a thin sheen of sweat against the blue sea of his mattress. Her eyes are clouded, chest panting softly and his name on her quivering lips making his heart flutter as his warm breath draw goosebumps all over her skin. There's an expression of quiet content framing her face as she holds his gaze, lips swollen from friction and rosy cheeks. She cups his cheeks between her warm hands, her soft fingers caressing his flushed skin tenderly before trailing up to cover his eyes shut, voice small and tentative as she whispers three words for only him to hear.

_I love you._

With a wide smile on his face, he pulls her hands away and places a gentle kiss on her open palm, heart swelling with raw affection.

_I love you too._

.

* * *

.

They love slow like lazy Sunday afternoons and deep like long winter nights, burning with the same quiet intensity of starry skies at midnight.

It feels so easy, like bending grass in the summer breeze, like dandelions falling apart in a gust of wind and sandust dancing in a whirlwind. It's the feeling of light rain hitting on a window pane and falling snow on Christmas morning —the feeling of pieces falling into place, of reaching harbor after drifting lost and finding a place to call home. .

.

Slowly, they find a way to keep fear at bay from crawling back into their hearts.

He drags her into the guild by the hand one day, and she's a blushing mess throwing murderous looks to whoever _dares_ ask about it. When their comrades pretend to forget that they've been avoiding each other for the last half year, she knows what true friends are made of.

She doesn't remember when she stopped caring about the smartass comments and the knowing looks, when she got over her PDA-phobia and started seeking for the warmth of his fingers to wrap around hers in a crowded room.

.

.

She _slays_ him at playing poker but loses miserably at _Mario Kart_. He mocks and laughs at her for her lack of patience and says her downfall is being too greedy. She tosses the controller away and shows her greedy with a kiss.

Some weekends Natsu and Lucy would come over and they'd play _cards against humanity_ while chewing on pizza and beer.

When he gets jealous at her relationship with Gajeel, she has to remember him for the millionth time that they are childhood friends and she's not into incest, she's into _him_. So after her friend starts dating Levy in an unpredicted turn of events, they make of weekend gatherings a common thing.

Her apartment is piling up dust and she knows she's spending unnecessary money every month by keeping it. She never stays there anymore —his closet is stuffed with her clothes and she's successfully taken over a whole cabinet in his bathroom— she's all over his place, _their _place.

One day, he asks her to move in, and she's drawn into sudden realization.

He's right. Maybe she should.

Hell, maybe she should hold on to him and never let go. Maybe she should marry him and have twenty kids.

_Maybe,_ but for the time being, just moving in sounds good.

Yeah, it sounds _really good_.

_**.**_

_**Fin.**_

.

* * *

—_They say that the world was built for two_

_Only worth living if somebody is loving you,_

_Baby now you do—_

* * *

**.**

**A/N:** *Wails and cries* omfg I actually finished a multichap! This is actually the first time ever and my first excuse of a fic was like 16 chapters long, hahahaha.

Okay but let's pretend that I didn't rush this. Let's pretend it's a good ending, _shhhh_.

Thanks from the bottom of my black withered cold heart to everybody who took the time to review this fic. You are the reason why this is complete, honestly. I don't think I've ever been so emotionally invested in one story, and the feedback I got throughout really warmed my soul. You guys rock.

Because you guys are beyond awesome, I'm gonna write a how they met fic because some people asked me about their past in reviews from previous chapters (see? I do listen to reviews, that's why you should send them *wink wink*).

This verse in particular is finished, but if you are edo thirsty you can check on my other fics or follow me as an author (please don't follow this story, it's FINISHED. If you follow but don't review I'm gonna be utterly upset tbh.)

So there, thanks for your support and spread the edo Gruvia love ^^


End file.
